


Abluvion

by moulinet (Abluvions)



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Character Death Fix, M/M, Post-Canon Fix-It, it's not his fault, queliot but i'm nice to charlton
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:02:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27786439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abluvions/pseuds/moulinet
Summary: Charlton has been having strange dreams about someone Eliot still loves: there's still hope after all.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 5
Kudos: 15





	Abluvion

It’s the sunlight that hits his face in _just_ the right way that reminds Charlton he’s not in Blackspire. No, instead he’s at Brakebills library, with its too smooth walls and bountiful art. Brakebills is old, perhaps, to the students here--but to Charlton, it might as well have been constructed last week. Enough time (and enough errant casting) has made the spells embed themselves inside the very wood itself, making the building magical enough that when Charlton closes his eyes and concentrates he can will the hum to sound just a bit like the Fillory he knew. Younger, but still familiar in a vague, all-encompassing way.

The appeal of Brakebills was something he didn’t quite get--he still doesn’t if he’s honest with himself, but he understands how much this means for others. Earth isn’t as tied to the Wellspring, after all. At least in Brakebills, magicians get to have a taste of what being close to something truly magical actually is. He feels bad for the hedge witches, without anyone to guide them. He tries to ignore how envious he feels, too, with just how free they are.

Charlton just wishes he didn’t feel like he’s what Eliot had offhandedly described as “geriatric child prodigy.” He doesn’t look as old as he is, courtesy of Hyman's body and the charm he wears around his wrist, but he’s simultaneously miles behind and leaps ahead of the general populace. 

Stifling a yawn, he rises. He takes the time to shift his neck to the side to crack it with a satisfying _crackle-pop_ , unknowingly causing the girl at the long table ahead of him to give him a disgusted look. He’s tired, lately, in a strange way he can’t quite put a finger on. There’s a fog around the world, one Charlton is certain exists just in his exhausted mind, where everything has a strange out of focus quality of it and his feet seem like they have a bit of lead in them.

He’s got to stop pulling all nighters to try to understand Earth magicians. He’s certain that’s why, but he can’t help himself: he wants nothing more than to impress Eliot. At the very least he’d like to be one less thing for the other to worry about. The taller man doesn’t say it in as many words, but Charlton’s very aware of the slight dip in his too-straight posture, and how when he thinks no one’s looking, he stares forlornly at a black hoodie that’s framed and displayed in the cottage. Eliot is, at his core, is still trying to pick up the pieces.

The Fillorian finds himself losing time again, although he’s unsure if it’s because he’s now completely used to the walk between the cottage and Brakebills proper or if it’s because he’s genuinely experiencing fatigue. He doesn’t think too much of it, although he notices a student (Linda, was that her name?) look at him oddly. Odd looks he’s perfectly used to, often to the point he doesn’t acknowledge them: Charlton simply does not care if people think he’s strange or unusual, because Earth is nothing like Fillory--university and the social constructs included in these hallowed halls of learning constantly confuse him. So long as he’s not harming anyone emotionally or physically, what does his behaviour matter to anyone else? There’s no point in being anything other than himself.   
  


Plum Chatwin clearly wasn’t expecting to open the door to the physical kids’ cottage to come face to face with Charlton, and so Charlton acts appropriately:

“Hello,” he greets, smile friendly. Plum blinks owlishly, recovering from the mild surprise.

“Hello,” She greets back, unsure.

Charlton is acutely aware that the three seconds that pass in silence feel like five minutes. He should say something. He should do something, he thinks. Instead, he half smiles. Plum mirrors this expression.

“Are you going to get out of the way?” The voice isn’t Plums, but instead comes from behind Charlton. Eliot is looking half amused, half curious, waiting patiently for the awkward moment to pass. Plum greets Eliot with a cheery hello before slipping away, and Charlton seems to remember his manners.

“Yes--yes, forgive me,” he mumbles, and holds the door open for the Brakebills professor. Eliot thanks him with a ghost of a smile as he heads immediately towards the bar.

“Cocktail, Charlton?” Eliot asks, and Charlton feels his cheeks heating up. 

“If it’s not too much trouble.” They both know it isn’t: Charlton visits Eliot, Eliot makes them cocktails, Charlton tries in vain to finish one, and they talk about everything and nothing at all. It’s a nice rhythm they have, a nice pace--it took a very long time to get where they are, but Charlton is immensely proud. The fact that Eliot doesn’t love him in the way Charlton loves Eliot will sting and it always will, he thinks. But Charlton will continue to love Eliot in any way he can, even if that includes not being with him. As long as Eliot finds happiness, that’s what Charlton has to focus on. He’s just happy Eliot tried, even if it wasn’t for very long.

Charlton’s gaze dips onto the gin bottle that Eliot’s currently pouring out of. There hasn’t been any parties lately, has there? Only the former High King really spends time in the cottage, other than Charlton, and Charlton doesn’t drink much. Even with Plum apparently visiting, that bottle was new a few days ago. He feels a pang of worry.

“You look like shit,” Eliot announces, and Charlton's face scrunches up in confusion.

“I look like me,” he counters, brows still furrowed, and when Eliot laughs he feels the whole world slow to a pleasantly numb halt. His drink is handed to him (a pink drink he’s later informed is a cosmo) and it’s a few quick, familiar steps to sit on one of the chairs. Eliot takes the one next to him, settling in, draping casually like he’s part of the chair itself and has been there for years while Charlton sits a little more proper, leaning forward and holding the martini glass with both hands.

Eliot’s right--he doesn’t look good. He can see it in reflective surfaces: there are dark circles around his eyes, and between the mind searing headaches and his body losing all sense of balance, he’s worse for wear. He’s attributed it to the bright artificial lights of Brakebills throwing him off.

“You haven’t been sleeping,” Charlton says instead after a peaceful moment of silence, and Eliot waits to finish taking a sip before answering.

“And how would you know that?”

“Because I see you wandering around at night.”

“If you see me wandering around at night, it means you haven’t been sleeping, either,” Eliot points out, and Charlton’s frown is impossible to hide even if he wanted to.

“I suppose.” It comes out ruder than Charlton expects. He takes another sip. It’s still overwhelmingly strong, but he’s getting better. They fall into silence, steady and familiar.

“You know you don’t have to worry about me so much,” Eliot states softly. 

“Yes I do. Friends worry about each other.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not, and you’re a terrible liar if you know how to look for it.”

Eliot laughs at that. “I am a master of deceit.”

“Your face pulls taught just before you lie.”

“Charlton.”

“It’s true.”

“ _Charlton_.” There’s warmth in the tone, Eliot’s voice still blissfully musical, but it’s a gentle reminder that there’s a line Charlton shouldn’t cross. Charlton sets the glass aside.

“Forgive me-- I didn’t mean to push. Perhaps I’m not in my right mind after all.” The blonde exhales loudly, and in a matter of seconds he, too, is draping in the chair, duplicating his friends’ stance. He imagines they look quite a pair, both tall and leggy and physically unable to sit properly for very long. 

“My advice?” Eliot’s smile still doesn’t reach his face, but it’s still genuine. “Take a bath. Go see Lipson. Sleep for a million years.”

Rich, Charlton thinks, Eliot giving advice that he needs to heed as well. He really _has_ seen Eliot wandering at absurd hours. Mostly the library and green house, but always staring a little too long at a certain room in the physical kid’s cottage no one has cleared out yet. Charlton thinks no one will--ghosts don’t necessarily have to manifest into a spirit to constantly linger in the corners of one’s mind. So Charlton smiles, and it’s a smile that really does reach his entire face, and he excuses himself to run a warm bath. He nearly loses his balance at the top of the stairs, but he grips the banister just in time, his whole body feeling light, his vision blurred but kin with bright, painful starbursts. It’s over in a few moments.

He skips the bath and decides to just head to bed.   
  
  
  
  


Charlton recognizes him. Of course Charlton recognizes him, semi-slouched despite his already short stature, hair in his face. The cut is shorter, the face clearer than in Eliot’s memories, but it’s him without a doubt.

Charlton is across from Quentin Coldwater, and he finds himself surprisingly calm about it. Maybe it’s all that time trapped with the monster--but then again, he’s always been observant, always been good at picking out little things. (and he’s very good at picking out little things. What he lacks in Earth culture, he understands in empathy, in logic, in observation.)

“I know who you are,” Charlton announces, because Quentin is technically looking at him, but he’s looking through him. It takes Quentin’s gaze shifting to Charlton properly for Charlton’s heart to still. Quentin can see him. He’s not invisible. Good. He hadn’t been alarmed that he’d blipped somewhere new, somewhere unknown, nor is he panicking that Quentin himself is there. He’d felt more worried that he wasn’t a person, and instead a wisp. A spirit.

Quentin looks, yes, but Quentin doesn’t say anything.

Charlton clears his throat. 

Quentin goes back to staring.

Charlton decides to look at his surroundings proper. He’s not sure how long it’s actually been--five seconds, maybe. Five minutes. He’d drifted somewhere, he thinks--a nap between Practical Application--and now he’s here. A carriage.

No. Train. A train car, to be precise. A subway.

And Quentin Coldwater is there but not there, noticing him but not acknowledging it. Charlton draws one hand up to his face, index finger tapping his chin, squinting.

“I know who you are,” he repeats again. He can't seem to say his name out loud, for some reason. There’s no answer. Charlton glances around, realizing they’re the only ones there.

Quentin’s in a hoodie, Charlton realizes. The one he’s seen while he was in Eliot’s mind. He can recall the Fillorian air, the cottage. The tiles creating a mosaic. He can recall how happy Eliot had been. Charlton presses his lips into a thin line, and it’s his turn to stare at Quentin. Quentin stares back, eyes glazed over. There’s no shine to them. Charlton tries one last thing.

“I know Eliot.”

Quentin’s gaze focuses.

Charlton wakes up.


End file.
